For me, autumn means the familiar scent of a 64-pack box of back-to-school crayons - sharpener included, warm sweaters, bonfires, and of course foliage that’s ablaze with color. Recreating the feeling of fall in fabric collage form meant rifling through my fabric supply and selecting the most brilliant hues I could find: a challenge I was happy to accept.
This raw edge fabric collage is mounted in a black wooden frame with a 2-inch black mat and covered in glass with UV protection.
Song for Autumn
In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.
~ Mary Oliver
For me, autumn means the familiar scent of a 64-pack box of back-to-school crayons - sharpener included, warm sweaters, bonfires, and of course foliage that’s ablaze with color. Recreating the feeling of fall in fabric collage form meant rifling through my fabric supply and selecting the most brilliant hues I could find: a challenge I was happy to accept.
This raw edge fabric collage is mounted in a black wooden frame with a 2-inch black mat and covered in glass with UV protection.
Song for Autumn
In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.
~ Mary Oliver
